Page 41 of Push My Buttons
She moves like liquid shadow, each step deliberate and silent across the apocalyptic landscape. The harness outfit she's wearing is a masterpiece of tactical fetish—black straps criss-crossing her body, framing removable patches that cover just enough to make my imagination work overtime. Her mask is even more elaborate in person, crystals catching the light with every subtle movement of her head, chains concealing her mouth while somehow making it more enticing.
I'm instantly, painfully hard.
"Fuck," I whisper, the word escaping before I can stop it.
Beside me, ObsidianWolf has gone completely rigid. I glance over and something about his posture strikes me as familiar—the way his head tilts slightly, the careful stillness of his body. The same itch of recognition crawls up my spine. I had it when I initially met him too—like I’d known him somewhere else, in another life or another room, and my brain just won’t give me the file. Even the way he talks, the cadence of it, feels like muscle memory I don’t remember earning. It reminds me of someone, but I can't place who through the haze of lust fogging my brain.
She approaches slowly, her hips swaying hypnotically. Every step is calculated to draw our eyes exactly where she wants them. And it's working. I can't look away as she circles us once, twice, like a predator assessing her prey.
She’s got that look—like she could kill me or ride me. Honestly, I’d let her decide. Preferably without changing outfits in between.
My pulse hammers in my throat as she stops directly in front of us, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something subtle and slightly spicy that makes my mouth water.
She reaches out, one gloved finger tracing the edge of my mask where it meets my jaw. The touch is featherlight but sendselectricity shooting down my spine. I fight the urge to lean into it, to turn my face and capture that finger between my teeth.
That’s how addictions start, sweetheart. One touch. Just one. And now I’m done for.
She moves to ObsidianWolf next, giving him the same treatment. I watch his breathing change, becoming deeper, more controlled—like he's fighting for composure. I know the feeling.
We were briefed on the rules before entering. The calendar shoot first, then the game. She has fifteen removable patches on her outfit. We each get fifteen oil balls to slow her down or create traps. For each successful capture, we earn the right to remove one patch. Whoever collects the most by the end wins the ultimate prize—she removes her mask for them alone.
Simple. Except there's nothing simple about the way she's making me feel right now.
I'm vaguely aware there must be a photographer somewhere on set capturing these initial interactions, but I haven't seen or heard him. It feels like we're completely alone in this manufactured wasteland, just the three of us breathing the same electric air.
She steps between us suddenly, her back pressing against ObsidianWolf's chest while her hand slides down my thigh. The dual contact makes me suck in a sharp breath. Her touch is confident, possessive, as her fingers trail dangerously close to where I'm straining against my tactical pants.
"Jesus," I hiss, my voice sounding strangled even to my own ears.
She tilts her head, and though I can't see her mouth through the chains, I sense her smile. She's enjoying this—our reactions, our restraint, the power she holds over us both.
Her hand moves higher on my thigh, fingernails scraping lightly against the material. Behind her, I see ObsidianWolf'shands hover uncertainly near her waist, like he's afraid to touch her without explicit permission.
She solves his dilemma by reaching back with her free hand and guiding his palm to her hip. I watch his fingers flex against the harness strap, hear his sharp intake of breath.
She drops to her knees between us in one fluid motion—fast, decisive, no hesitation. Like she’s been planning this from the second she stepped out of the shadows. There’s no coy build-up, no testing the waters, just raw, unapologetic intent, and fuck me if that kind of confidence in a woman isn’t my ultimate weakness.
My brain short-circuits as she looks up, eyes burning behind her mask. Her hands move efficiently, finding the fasteners on my tactical pants and working them open. I'm so hard it almost hurts, and when her gloved fingers brush against me through my underwear, I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning.
She gives ObsidianWolf the same treatment, and I watch his chest rise and fall rapidly as she frees him. We're both fully erect, both at her mercy as she kneels before us.
She takes me in her hand first, stroking firmly from base to tip. The leather of her glove creates a friction that's just shy of too much, the slight roughness making my hips jerk involuntarily. Then she turns to ObsidianWolf, giving him the same attention while I stand there, throbbing and desperate for her to continue.
When she leans forward and takes me into her mouth, I nearly lose it on the spot. The chains of her mask tickle as they brush against my skin, adding an unexpected sensation to the wet heat enveloping me. She maintains eye contact the entire time, those expressive eyes conveying more than words ever could.
She alternates between us—a few strokes for him, a few moments of her mouth on me, keeping us both balanced on the edge of pleasure without letting either of us tip over.
I'm dimly aware of ObsidianWolf's reactions beside me—his controlled breathing, the occasional sharp exhale when she does something particularly clever with her tongue. There's something almost competitive building between us, though neither of us has spoken a word since she appeared.
Just as I feel myself approaching the point of no return, her warmth suddenly disappears. She pulls back, and I watch in stunned silence as she wipes her mouth with the back of her gloved hand. The gesture is somehow both delicate and obscene, and it makes my cock twitch.
She looks up at us both, and though I can't see her smile, I feel it—wicked and knowing. Then she's on her feet and backing away, those eyes still locked on ours.
And then she's gone, melting into the shadows of the set like she was never there at all.
Wait. What? Oh no. Oh, hell no. You can’t just start that and then run away. That’s not foreplay—that’s psychological warfare.
"Fuck," ObsidianWolf mutters beside me, the word clipped and tight with frustration and something that sounds almost like admiration.
